


Alstroemeria

by WitchyBee



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aromantic Adelard Dekker, Aromantic Gertrude Robinson, Aspec Archives Week (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), Cigarettes, Fire, Friendship, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyBee/pseuds/WitchyBee
Summary: Gertrude and Adelard investigate a series of mysterious deaths, commit arson, and do some self-reflection.
Relationships: Adelard Dekker & Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Aspec Archives Week





	Alstroemeria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for aspec archives week.
> 
> In my headcanon Dekker is also ace, not sure about Gertrude, but that isn't really the focus of this fic.
> 
> Alstroemeria is a flower representing friendship, love, mutual support, and the ability to help each other through the trials and tribulations of life.)

They meet up outside a small East London church on a bright winter afternoon. Gertrude and Adelard have not seen one another in person for nearly five months, as is frequently the nature of their work.

“Thank you for agreeing to help with this,” Adelard says.

“I suppose I do owe you after that little Desolation matter,” Gertrude replies.

“Mm. The burns healed very well, thank you for asking.”

That earns him the ghost of a smile from her. They all have to take a bit of levity anywhere they can find it, but it seems more and more elusive with each passing year.

Gertrude cannot recall the last time she set foot inside a church. A funeral, most likely. She glances at Dekker, who looks comfortable here even under the circumstances, like existing in this sacred space is second nature to him. Her friend’s faith will always be a mystery to her.

It truly is a shame that faith alone has never protected anyone from the Fears.

Lucilla Sutton—Adelard tries to make a point of learning their names—had dropped dead as she walked down the aisle during her wedding. This is the third incident of its kind in as many months. Possibly a coincidence, of course. However, Bianca had conducted Lucilla’s post-mortem examination and found that her body was in a very advanced state of decomposition, much more so than one would expect given her recent time of death. The other cases had all been the same.

They need to figure out why.

“I’m told the police are keen to avoid an official inquest whenever possible, so the scene should be largely untouched,” Dekker explains.

Indeed, it is. Still, this is also hardly the most interesting place of death either of them has ever seen. It looks like an ordinary wedding, if all the participants and guests had abruptly vanished mid-ceremony. The bland normalcy of their surroundings does make it fairly simple to identify anything strange, even without the background whir of a tape recorder in Gertrude’s bag.

Adelard stoops down, knees protesting—he really is getting too old for this—to get a closer look at the abandoned bouquet. This, he suspects, is probably the last thing that poor bride ever touched. He reaches out a gloved hand and retrieves the wilted peonies and roses. Every flower appears to be dry and discolored, and beneath them he finds a small puddle of some sort of dark, murky liquid that smells sickly sweet.

“Those should be burnt,” Gertrude says, handing him her lighter. It used to be his lighter and technically remains so to this day, but she borrowed it in 1989 shortly before one or both of them disappeared for a while chasing a lead.

“Yes,” he agrees, expression grim. “And we need to have a word with the florist.”

* * *

Now, night has fallen, and they are standing across the street from a flower shop. Its windows are bright with raging orange flames that consume everything within.

“Cigarette?” Gertrude offers.

“You know I quit years ago.”

“As did I, but it helps with the smell somewhat.”

He hesitates, but ultimately accepts. After all, almost anything must be better than the stench of rotting plants and decay that lingers long after its source is gone.

They smoke their cigarettes in companionable silence.

As the heat inside the shop rises, one of the windows suddenly breaks. It will not be long at all before a firetruck’s wailing siren completely spoils their nice evening.

“Have you ever considered marriage, Gertrude?” he wonders.

“I can’t say it’s been much of a priority of mine, no. There would hardly be time for such things, regardless.” Gertrude gives him that look, then, the one which means she is curious but does not necessarily want to ask a question and risk taking more than he might be willing to give.

“Nor me,” he tells her. “To be honest... I don’t believe I’ve ever felt it. That sort of affection, I mean. The inclination to be with anyone in that way, to date or marry; any of it.”

Friendship has always been enough for Adelard, and he cares for his friends fiercely, especially Gertrude. He cannot imagine telling anyone else this particular detail about himself anyway, although he wouldn’t be surprised if she already knows.

“I did some research once, and apparently there’s a word for that now,” he continues. “They call it being ‘aromantic.’”

“A romantic?”

“No. It's just one word. The Greek prefix.”

“Ah.” She nods, taking a thoughtful drag of her cigarette. “It seems there is a great deal of terminology to describe things we never could when we were young.”

“Quite so.”

“...Tell me more about this research of yours.”

Their lives are, due to the nature of the work they do, isolated in many ways. But it’s comforting to know that they are never entirely alone in all things. That even if the countless horrors they have both witnessed and experienced throughout the years surely left marks upon them, they were not born broken, nor are they incapable of love. It is merely a different kind.


End file.
